She walked to the light
and closed the door–
at the corner of her eyes–
a river was ready to roll down her valley.
In the middle of the room
broken glass lying on the tiles–
it gave her wounds deep as the one between her legs.
It was her precious glass–
The glass once salvaged her burning soul
from turning into ashes
when she took a drink from it.
The same glass that faded her heart away
like a burning cigarette.
She wondered if her trust could ever be recycled
like the broken glass lying on the tiles.
With open arms
she welcomed depression as her source of happiness–
it gave her the best decision no one else would
by putting the kitchen knife through the left side of her chest.